


Run for the shadows

by Mis_Shapes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged up from asoiaf but canon age gaps apply, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Chivalry, F/F, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Jousting, M/M, POV Multiple, Political Alliances, Spying, aromantic rhaenys, political turbulance, tournament, tourney
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 16:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mis_Shapes/pseuds/Mis_Shapes
Summary: At the end of the rebellion Ned Stark took the Iron Throne. Though the smallfolk are happy under his reign the great House's of Westros still vie for power. Joined together in King's Landing under the backdrop of Robb Stark's nameday tourney the younger generation create some of their own, often a little more risqué, alliances.





	1. Theon

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the lyrics of Golden Years, which I think much of fits very well, and a shameless reference to the soundtrack of A Knights Tale.
> 
> I've not put the full host of intended characters yet as there's going to be a lot. There will also be a fair few background ships (e.g. Lysa/Petyr, Jaime/Brienne), but these are the ones I intend to write more of. There's a mix of established and new relationships.

As happy as Theon Greyjoy was on a ship, the journey from Pyke had become tiresome. The suddenness of the invitation to court had limited their ports of call, dropping anchor only for the necessary supplies. Now he sat in the same salt stained clothing he disembarked in in a courtyard of the Red Keep amongst the Lords and Ladies of King’s Landing, joined together from across the Seven Kingdoms in celebration. No mind, he didn’t intend to sit here longer than was necessary to get a good meal in him and satisfy his curiosity for the night. And perhaps to gain a bedfellow.  
  
The warm sea air of a late summer evening blew in through the windows, familiar and yet alien to the Iron Islands. If anything, it was a comforting reminder that at least he wasn’t still back at Pyke. Or rather, that he had gained a little breathing space from the shadow of his family. Here the smell of the ocean was tinged with the perfume of the late summer blooms of the gardens beyond the chiffon curtains. The candles flickered gently and did not threaten to become extinguished in a sudden gust as they might have done back home.  
  
The Starks were always known to be a dour bunch, but one would imagine that after eighteen years in the south the good and honourable Eddard Stark, first of his name, might have thawed and come to enjoy life at court. Certainly, a number of his children thrived. Their fiery hair shone with the same warmth of their smiles against the white and grey of their house colours. White as the fields of snow leagues to the north surrounding their ancestral home. It was an odd site to find wolves this far south.  
  
Infectious even from the distance at which Theon sat at the back of the yard, he felt the corner of his mouth turn into a smile at the sight of the eldest child’s carefree grin as he teased his younger siblings, swooping the younger girl of Stark looks up from under the armpits to swing her round as his mother fussed at their side. This wasn’t unusual for Theon Greyjoy. His father would have it be said that his youngest child smiled all too often, that he grew tired of his insolence. Every smile assumed to be impertinent, the result of the internal mocking of those around him. Perhaps he was right in that some of the time.

 He was most likely giddy, this prince, for the opening of the tourney in honour of his nameday. Though it was to be the first at which he had permission to compete, the bookmaker’s odds would suggest that the crown prince was already well known to be a deft hand at the joust and no stranger to the competition.  
  
“Caught your eye?” Laughed a man as he sat beside Theon on the long bench, his back against the table. His whole being seemed to shine, the bronze of his hair, the golden roses of his clothing, his eyes, his skin itself.  
  
“Hmm?” Theon murmured in reply, feigning indifference as he pulled off another segment of the blood orange, the fine mist spray of the citrus tickled his nose. If he was to be here he might as well eat his weight in the delicacies flowing into King’s Landing, the drowned god knew there were no such things to be found at home.

The stranger surprised him when, in quite an uncourteous manner, he took hold the wine cup from his hand, a smug smile gracing his lips. Pretty lips with a perfect set pearly whites to match. His confidence was easily determined. “The Lady Rhaenys, my Lord….?”  
  
“Greyjoy,” Theon sighed, pushing aside the irritation as he finally acknowledged him, eyes looking up and down, taking note of the sigil on his chest, the light brown curls and golden eyes. “Theon Greyjoy.”  
  
“Lord Greyjoy-“  
  
“Theon,” he corrected, “please.”  
  
A nod came in response as he was expected to return the courtesy.  
  
Theon smirked, enjoying the expression from the corner of his eyes as he turned back to the orange. “Oh, don’t look so glum. I need not ask is all. The Knight of Flowers needs no introduction, Ser Loras.” The smugness was back on the young knights face and so he continued, turning slightly to brush a thumb over an embroidered golden rose. “Besides, one could hardly say you are subtle.”  
  
Thankfully, he snorted softly, not at all offended, eyes glinting as he brushed a curl back behind his ear. “It is true… I could not be accused of subtlety…” His brows rose as he took in Theon’s clothing and added, “nor being dowdy.”  
  
Theon’s lips pursed as he found himself chewing his cheek, fingers running over the embossed metal work on the rim of a plate. Everything here was crafted to be as elaborate as possible. Direwolves ran around the outside.

“There is no need to look so dejected… I merely suspect it might be something you want to remedy while at court.”  
  
“Perhaps you suspect right.”  
  
“Mmmm, I could help you with that.”  
  
“And what might I be able to help you with in return?” Theon asked mischievously, running a hand down Loras’s arm as though admiring the silk. He laughed at the blush, “don’t fret, I’m not here to pluck Renly’s rose.”  
  
“No, you dare look at the sun, Lord Greyjoy.”  
  
His eyes glanced over his shoulder, back to the dais, to the girl countering her Dornish looks with swathes of black silk and rubies. He thought the choice of her clothing to be a little daring, if not obnoxious. Some said that Tywin Lannister had been ready to put her and her brother to the slaughter if it seemed Robert Baratheon were to claim the Iron Throne. Luckily for them for all his stoney exterior it seemed their King had a soft heart. “I see only a dragon.”  
  
“I wasn’t referring to the Martell girl, my lord,” he laughed, nodding to the Stark beside her. “The one who is touched by fire.” _Ah._  
  
“Are they..?” He questioned. _Are they what exactly?_  
  
“They would have everyone believe so.” Loras laughed while they watched Robb Stark take Rhaenys’s hand and set it on his arm, leading her gallantly to those already dancing. “They do make a handsome couple, don’t they?” Robb’s hand moved to her waist, leading her firmly. Indeed, they did. “And what a story. Ice and fire, raised alongside each other. A prince and princess.” Theon quirked a brow at what some might call treason. Some might claim him to be a Prince but none dared say it and his family had not had it’s throne taken by another. “It all seems so obvious… and yet no wedding. It makes one wonder.”

“Perhaps good King Ned isn’t willing to throw his heir away in a love match when there’s political gain to be had.”  
  
“Perhaps you're right, perhaps the Starks have no desire to get into bed with the Martells and Targaryans through one marriage,” Loras breathed with more than a tinge of sarcasm.  
  
Theon sniggered, taking back the cup and savouring the spicy taste of Hippocras, most likely hailing from the Reach, “bringing Rhaenys into the fold solves little of the problems in this reign while Viserys and Daenerys are safely holed up in Dragonstone and Aegon struts around the Red Keep.”  
  
Clearing his throat, Loras lent forwards to brush his lips against Theon’s ear, eager to gossip. “There are those who would say her brother has the greater claim. That Rhaegar divorced Elia and married Lyanna.”  
  
“Even so, that does not make his siblings illegitimate.”  
  
“My lord, many would disagree.”  
  
Theon pulled a look of scepticism, taking a sip from the cup. “I…” His eyes followed the Tyrell’s to where the Kings nephew blushed at the touch of a sweet-faced girl with chestnut curls, almost choking at the realisation. Suddenly the wine in his hand reeked of ambition as he swilled it around, the whirl hypnotic.

“You thought they were all here for the Stark boy.” Loras whispered.

“And her.” Theon admitted with a nod to Rhaenys. She danced with such grace and dignity it makes it almost possible to mistake her for the Princess Royal if it were not for the banners around the room insisting that she were not.  
  
“Mmmm, that’s what they would have the Starks believe too… I don’t see House Greyjoy making a play?”  
  
Theon scoffed at the suggestion of his sister, or even the House itself, getting involved in such a rouse. “House Greyjoy would not feel beholden to any other house.”

“No…”

“Making friends are we, Loras?” A hand came down to take a possessive grip on Tyrell’s shoulder, when combined with the voice’s tone it could only belong to one man. The youngest of House Baratheon’s trio of brothers and quite possibly the most tolerable, or so he’d heard.

Theon drained the rest of wine and nipped his lip playfully as he looks up to meet mesmerising green eyes. They matched his tunic and, from the tales the smallfolk told, his armour. The idea humoured him; the wearing of green with antlers, his infamy in hunting. Like some huntsman from a legend or faerie-tale. He belonged alongside this Stark boy, the epitome of a prince charming figure from what he’d seen so far.  “Lord Renly, a pleasure,” he cooed while extending a hand.

“And you are?” Renly asked.

“Theon Greyjoy, my lord. A shame that I have yet to get myself a reputation here, I have a great urge to remedy that immediately.” He smirked as swung his legs over the bench and winked at Loras. “I shall see you tomorrow. A good evening to you both.”

Leaving the pair of them in his wake, he made a beeline for the buxom beauty who seemed to find Renly’s approach as humorous as he had. It seemed the Stark’s allowed dogs into the keep for he spotted eyes beneath the tables gazing longingly at the trenches carried by the serving girls.  
  
“Would you join me in a dance, my lady?” 

Her looks give her away as a Dornish woman, with more than just a passing resemblance to the Martell girl. One of Prince Oberyn’s bastards perhaps. “I’d be honoured, my lord Greyjoy.”  
  
“You know who I am?” He asked while slipping a hand to her waist, gripping harder than necessary and letting his thumb brush lower, appreciative of the curves and softness he felt.  


As she lent in her breasts pressed against his chest, her voice husky and mischief in her eyes, “I have heard much of Lady Asha’s baby brother.”  
  
“Perhaps it has been a while since you have seen her, I’ll have you know I’m a big boy now.” He winked, grinning as she rolled her eyes but failed to suppress the smile, looking up from beneath dark thick lashes. 

“Is that so?” She mused. 

“I am quite willing to prove it if it’s required of me.”

She laughed pleasantly at the arrogance. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Not necessary, but perhaps desirable?”

This time she looked to her feet as she grinned, playing coy. He’d seen enough of this move in his time, enough to feel confident in gently lifting her chin with a long finger to look her in the eye. Its short lived for no sooner had he gained her attention than it was snatched away by another. He watched as her eyes darted over his shoulder and in them laid the warmth of affection.

“Ah! Baby brother!” Asha’s voice called from behind him. When he turned her eyes are already on the girl as dipped her head into what could roughly be determined as a shallow bow. “Your highness, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Theon narrowed his eyes, watching them both carefully. Not a Sand snake. Arianne. It was unlike the Martell’s to allow their heir to travel so far from home.

“And you too, my lady.”

This was no simple surprise for either of the pair of them, that much was obvious. Nor was it a surprise as such to find his sister drawn in by a woman. It was, however, a surprise to find Dorne’s sweetheart had succumbed, despite the rumours. 

“May I take the princess off your hands, brother? I wish to discuss some matters of trade.”

As they walked away he heard Arianne laughed out the word _trade_ incredulously. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

There was only a moment or so to become disheartened before he caught the eye of a hand maid waiting on an older woman. A Florent or Gardener or some such. It mattered not. All that mattered was the gaze her servant returned him. A girl from Myr perhaps. The reach were fond of their ties with the free cities and the Myrish ladies were popular tutors of their daughters in needlecraft. A nod of the head was all it took. He found himself unable to determine whether he deemed it a compliment or an insult not to have had the thrill of the chase.

*

The intrusion of the page the next morning answered one of the questions. The way the small boy decked in House Tyrell colours eye’s widened suggested he was already somewhat familiar with the girl sprawled beside Theon on her front, sound asleep.

“Yes?” He asked, holding back from barking at the poor lad, whoever he was, partly out of the entertainment of watching how staggered he was. “Out with it.”

“S-Ser Loras sent me,” He stammered. “He was hoping, perhaps, you would join him this morning.”

Theon pulled himself up to sit upright, rubbing his face and the sleep from his eyes as he nodded and waved his hand to the door, gesturing for the boy to wait outside for him. And yet he didn’t shift from his spot. This time Theon did snap, “what now?”

He turned bright red, resulting in quite a contrast with the green of his garb. “They’re… They’re looking for her.”

Sighing, he nodded again, shooing him away with more effect this time.

Kissing gently down her spine, his hand caressed her buttocks and slipped down between her legs. He laughed approvingly as she responded to his touch and moved against his hand, arching her back in silent invitation. She tittered softly at his amusement, rolling onto her back and pulling her arms up above her head as she stretched sleepily. Her eyes were closed and so she missed the way he became captivated by the subsequent movement of her breasts, though he suspected she did it knowingly. The free hand moved against them, circling a nipple with his thumb.

“We’re being dragged out of bed, my lady. Something I very much regret. We have no time for any of the activities I had planned.”  
  
“I’m sure they can be hastened.”

“Come on, time to get going.” Theon smirked, sitting up and sliding off the bed, quickly pulling a shirt on over his head.

He chucked her dress over to her. In the light of day he could spot an array of embroidered roses around the neck, done as a second thought, and not golden as the Tyrell’s themselves were prone to conforming to.  
  
“You are cruel!” She complained accusingly with just a hint of jest. 

It was lucky that the handmaidens could get away with such light non constricting garments during the summer years, for she required very little time and no assistance whatsoever. 

His mute squire, Wex, waited for the sound of her feet to hit the boards before entering the room from a side door. The Grand Hall with all its guest rooms was built with such practicalities in mind, these adjoining rooms for the highborn and their servants. The Myrish woman barely acknowledged him as she adjusted herself before a mirror, as though that might disguise the fact she had been busy overnight.  
  
Theon pulled on the tall black boots ferried to him by the young boy and caught her eye in the reflection, flashing one of his best smiles. “I’ll see you again, …?” 

“Elaenys.”

“Elaenys,” he repeated with a nod, playing with the way it sounded on his tongue.

The floorboards creaked as he crossed them to the door. Some liked to say the floors of the Red Keep were purposefully noisy, whether is was to deter intruders or the inhabitants from midnight excursions was not agreed upon. Theon supposed that the more likely explanation was poor workmanship, but that did not make for an interesting titbit to provide during small talk.

No one could say the walk between his and Loras Tyrell’s rooms was long but it was astounding considering they never once left the building. The Tyrell’s rooms’, of course, faced onto the God’s Wood’s rather than the kitchens, reflecting the importance the crown deemed of their house. 

Their loss, he thought, for his rooms felt the rising warmth from the ovens of the kitchens. The baking of the bread meant he did not wake to the chilly air of autumn mornings.

Inside his room, Loras stood on a box which the tailor circling his appeared to have brought along.

“Ah! Theon. There you are. A moment and then we’ll swap. I took the liberty of requesting some fabrics in your house colours.”

He wandered over to the swathes draped over the table, running his hand gently across them. He should put a stop to this now. This wasn’t for the Iron Born, but he longed for it all the same. To feel it, to wear it, for others to see himself in it.

“It won’t be possible to have new clothes ready for this evening, but I’m sure we could find something suitable for your needs from my wardrobe. Something that would attract just the right attention. Something… sumptuous.”

In that moment his mind only dwelt on the possibility of the attentions of only one. One who felt eternally out of his reach. One who he had the desire to succumb to.  



	2. Robb

She sighed as she paced the length of the long covered balcony that stretched out along her family’s rooms behind him. It was a sigh well known to him, a sigh that came from exasperation formed due to those around her failing to understand her point. Failing to keep up. It wasn’t that she knew more than others particularly; not like Aegon sat on the window ledge behind her on the opposite end to Robb. More that she saw situations for what they really were, she read people as easily as one might read a book and read them instead. She relished the chance to solve a problem.

“You aren’t listening to me,” Rhaenys insisted, her palms faced up.

“I am listening, I just… “ Robb glanced anxiously over to her brother, checking that he was still engrossed in the book, “I think you’d rather another. Rhae, please.”

“I was born to be queen.” She scowled at him as she pre-empted him even thinking thoughts that had the rebellion not happened Aegon would be king before she queen, and then the after thought that even then her only real chance would be as his sister wife. She was her mother’s daughter, and proud of her Dornish heritage, especially the elements that suited her. She knew him too well.

He kept his eyes low, looking over the rooves of the Red Keep and falling onto the Grand Hall. That’s where he’ll be, he thought. Was he awake yet? If he was, if he looked close enough would he be able to spot him at the window? Suddenly he realised just how that might sound and, slouched over onto the wall, auburn hair falling into his face. He peeked up at Rhaenys as she settled beside him and tentatively edged her slender little finger over his.

“You will have to marry eventually,” she pointed out sympathetically, not that he thanked her for the reminder, her eyes following the path his had taken. Her long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, an endearing untidiness to it. As a late and lazy riser, she had yet to allow her handmaid to fuss over her.

“I know,” He mumbled, his finger taking hers. “But… I just can’t. I don’t- “

“I _know_.”

“I won’t ever.”

“I know,” she repeated. “It’s not important to me.”

“What if you change your mind? You deserve the chance to marry for love.”

Rhaenys snorted, “firstly, that isn’t something I could ever hope for, and you know that. Secondly, I don’t think that’s for me.”

Robb looked at her carefully. There were few who were so pragmatic as her. She had a rare ability to mediate between his sisters, and the rest of their siblings for that matter. It was a well-practiced skill from years of their make believe in which she played the queen to his king. Some called her bossy, but it wasn’t so much that she told others what to do… she made people want to do it.

“Besides, I love you.”

Smiling, he shook his head at her and rolled his eyes. “It’s not the same.”

“No… but this way you could have a chance.” She leant down to be at a height with him, forearms on the stone, and gently rested her head on his shoulder. “He noticed you.”

His pulse quickened, whether from the mere mention of him, the idea of his interest, or her talking of such matters he didn’t know. They had yet to openly discuss such things, but of course she knew. There wasn’t much she didn’t know. About anyone, let alone him. “I’m the crown prince… everyone notices me.”

She laughed watching him turn red, he was too modest to even be able to say this without embarrassment. “I know, I know…. But…. Well, you know.”

“He went to your cousin,” he groaned, head falling to his hands as though he could no longer bare any attempt at stoicism.

“He could hardly go to you.”

“He left with another.”

“ …sometimes people accept defeat like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Aegon called over accusingly, looking up from his book, a thick tome on the ‘brief’ history of Essos.

“Nothing!” They chimed in unison, exchanging sly smirks.

Grey Wind stirred at Robb’s side. The quirk of his ears meant the approach of another, but the following wag of his tail suggested a sibling about to appear.

The direwolf pups had been brought back by Jon and Bran from their recent trip to Winterfell. His father felt it important that both Bran, as its future Lord, and Winterfell were familiar with each other. A harsh reminder that it would not be long before he was sent as a permanent ward to his uncle Benjen.

Robb was unsure whether the involvement of Jon in this trip had any meaning. His cousin was prone to falling into the resolve that he would one day soon join the Nights Watch. Robb was keen on the idea that if he were to do something of this ilk that he at least waited for a position on the Kingsguard. Jon on the other hand was of the mindset that Starks went to the wall. And he was a Stark.

“Seems unlikely.” Jon appeared beside his brother in the window, flicking the pages of the book out of curiosity to discover what he was reading. “You’re going to let them canoodle like this are you?”

The pups leapt and bound towards each other, launching themselves into a playful roll. Ever quiet, Ghost remained silent while Grey Wind yapped at him, initiating a chase.

Closing the book, Aegon smirked. The cat at his feet opened a single yellow eye to keep watch on the wolves and swished his tail as a prior warning to them, lest they mean to involve him in anyway. “I’d rather them do it here where I can keep an eye on them. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know…” Jon mock grumbled, “their arms are touching and everything…” He gave the cat the briefest of strokes. “Robb, your being called for, and Rhaenys, one of your ladies is becoming really quite tetchy.”

On their exit from the usurped royal families’ apartments, Jon called by Elia to wish her a good morning where she was sat by a window, sunning herself as she liked to do while she read a bundle of letters that had arrived for her. The maesters agreed that the warmth and light was good for her weak health and it was where she felt most at home. It reminded her of Dorne, if any place could. Elia herself was free to come and go, but her fragility and love for her children prevented her from doing so.

They were sweet with each other, the pair of them, he thought while watching Jon kiss her on the cheek. One might have expected them not to have been on good terms. Robb did not like to think how his lady mother might tolerate a bastard of her husbands. But then from what he knew the relationships of the couples were rather different, and it appeared to him that there was an unspoken sympathy from Elia towards Lyanna and her son. On a number of occasions there had been some strife between Rhaegar’s sons, but it had been well handled and as the pair of them matured they seemed to reach an understanding.

*

Donned in his house colours, Robb strode alongside Jon. Jon was prone to wearing black and grey, a mix of Stark and Targaryen which suited him and his temperament well. That didn’t stop the near constant teasing that he should now choose the alternative choices to match his new companion. The wolf was an albino of white fur and red eyes, as white as snow and as red as blood, while the rest of the litter was grey. When he was in a good mood he suggested adding the white wolf onto his livery as he wouldn’t like to get confused with the Kingsguard, but as of yet he had not done so. Robb wondered if using the invert of his house sigil, a custom among bastards, might be too painful.

They kept a fast pace, it was an unspoken tactic to deter any potential attempts to snag their attention. It forced those around to step out of the way instead of towards. He couldn’t help but feel a buzz of excitement as they passed the exotically coloured pavilion tents. His senses were overwhelmed, from buskers playing wonderful music, from the intriguing smells emitting from the cooking of regional dishes, from the bustle around them.

On their arrival to the royal box, they watched as one of the competitors approached. An archer of House Reed. A black lizard-lion sewn onto his chest. Though his hood was drawn, Robb believed it to be the son of Howland Reed, an old friend of his fathers, based on the age suggested by his spritely movements. He couldn’t seem to place his name and he scolded himself for it. Sansa, who rose from her seat, would know.

Dressed in grey velvet, her hair bound in white silk ribbons, Sansa blushed prettily as she reached to retrieve the favour she had lovingly crafted from her sleeve. He’d watched her engrossed in her needlework for weeks now. His sister would not deny any that requested her favour. She lived for such events and relished the opportunity to play a part. Though it was unlikely many of the participants would make suitable matches, the tales she truly adored were those of courtly love and so she had a weakness for such ideas.

By the time they had reached her the archer had bowed his thanks and left. Her handmaid and longterm friend, Jeyne, joined Sansa under the pretence of fixing her hair. They giggled and exchanged hushed words, full of smiles and joyful for the start of the archery event and the rest of tourney with it. Sansa might have had a number of noble girls at her beck and call, but it was Jeyne, who might have been overlooked by many, who was the constant.

Setting down to wait for the competition to begin, he sunk back into what some might call a throne and accepted a cup of wine. His father would sit there later in the week to watch his son and nephew, but he was not one for tourneys and had left his children to represent him. They were getting to an age after all.

A cup or so later he began to feel its affects, only mildly of course, he could handle liquor minorly well, but enough to feel his cheeks pinken when reason was given for them to do so. And they were going to be given reason to do so.

It was beginning to near midday and, thank the gods, the first round was almost at an end. There had been so many wishing to compete, most of whom were walking disasters, that he’d almost lost all of his his patience. That was when another familiar face jogged lightly in, turning on his heels and laughing heartily at something called after him.

Robb felt his heart skip a beat, a lump catch in his throat. Greyjoy looked more striking, if that were even possible, than he had the night before. His shirt billowed and blew against him in the wind, the arm whipping slightly when he went to tuck a loose lock of hair behind his ear.

The white linen emphasised everything that had already drawn him in, broad shoulders, sharp hips and narrow waist, his fluid movements themselves. His hair was pulled back from his face, out of practicality he suspected. It fell gently onto his neck and stray strands licked his jaw.

But it wasn’t those reasons that quickened his pulse and made him feel ever more enchanted. It was the glint in his eye as he raised his brow, the way his mouth became bigger than he thought was even possible when he truly laughed, and the single dimple at every slight smirk. When the Iron born finally deigned to look away from Loras Tyrell the way he immediately caught Robb’s eye for a split second before he tore away once made him wonder if it was all purposeful. If the jealousy it provoked was purposeful; if he was supposed to wonder if if he dropped to his knees and pulled up that ill-fitting shirt, clearly made for the Knight of Flowers, the dimples of his lower back would be just as beautiful. Kiss worthy, just waiting to be worshipped. And, worst of all, if he was supposed to ponder the obscene ways in which he might be able to swap the smile for a different expression. For his brows to furrow and his mouth to loll with rapture. But what did he know of such things?

The crowd hushed as they waited for him to proceed and it was over and done with all too quickly. The target, still, and at this distance, was no challenge for him. Childs play. It was more of a trial for him to draw out Renly Baratheon from the side-lines and into the contest, but the crowd thanked him for it. Robb could sense his sister scoot to the edge of her seat. Why would any care for anything that came after Theon Greyjoy?

For a moment or two he must have let his mind slip but it was brought sharply back with some vigour.

“Will the Prince not compete?”

He didn’t know where this first request came from, only that it was quickly joined by other voices, eager to be able to tell others how their future King fared with a bow. Not well, in truth. His lack of natural skill was mitigated only by years of work and pushing of their tutors.

Jon laughed, nudging him. “Go on.”

From the chanting he could tell there would be no graceful bowing out. His squire sensed it too, almost tripping up the steps as he ran towards them.

“Steady, boy.” A silly thing to say in hindsight; he was barely any older. “Fetch me a bow to use?”

Taking a deep breath, he stood from the chair and descended down from the dais, heading out onto the field only to be called back.

“Your highness!” Finally, ready for the world, Rhaenys followed after him, as beautiful as ever, in her hand a strip of fabric. “May I?”

Extending his hand in silent admission, he allowed himself this look away from the rest of world to let all pretences drop momentarily, to feel vulnerable in front of her, as she tied the lace to his wrist, making sure to keep the tail ends short by wrapping it round twice and tucking it in under the cuff of his sleeve.

“You’ll be fine. You can be too much of a perfectionist and your skill with a lance has spoilt you. You don’t need to win everything.”

“Just their hearts.”

“Just their hearts,” she repeated solemnly back to him, “but I think you’re most of the way there.”

The squire chased after him with an acquired bow and quiver as he got to where Greyjoy and Baratheon stood in front of the target. Thankfully, he wasn’t one to feel very particular about a bow. They backed off promptly to give him space, exchanging a glance with each other. He tried to look away and ignore Theon lowering his eyes as he smiled at something and sucked in his lip to keep it from building.

He drew and paused to take a breath and focus, his shot adequate once he took it. Enough to put him through to the next round. If anyone heard the crowd they’d have thought he’d done something spectacular.

“Sire?”

The voice was unfamiliar, and he was busy getting the attention of his squire and preparing to leave to see who spoke, but he knew all the same. The same deep sultry dulcet tone he’d imagined on him. The same one that had moaned in his dreams. Heat flooded his cheeks to be addressed as such. Longing for it to continue, but struggling to articulate that it wasn’t customary, his voice faltered. “I-“

“Your highness,” Renly Baratheon took a step towards him, putting himself between them, “we thought you might be inclined to take lunch with us. All of us that is,” he added, indicating the majority of the noble competitors, “if it pleases you.”

“I should get back- I wasn’t planning to-… “ He met the questioning dark eyes of Greyjoy, surprisingly kind.

“We’ll look after you,” Theon drawled, a pause not due to an afterthought, but an emphasis so deliberate it had Renly shoot him a stare, “sire.”

“Of course,” he heard himself say eventually, “please, lead the way.”

He fell a couple of steps behind Renly as they met with Loras, and delighted in Greyjoy dropping back to him rather than returning his attentions to this knight that surely belonged in the illustrations of Sansa’s favourite books.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” Robb told him, finally finding his voice but pinning his eyes on the movement of the sword at Loras’s side.

“Call you what?” He asked innocently.

“You know what.”

“Your highness doesn’t like it?”

“Please stop.”

His beautifully clear laugh, devoid of any falsity, rang out. It was a wasted effort now to try and avoid looking at him, at lips so red they sempt dowsed in pomegranate juice just waiting to be kissed, licked, sucked clean. “What might I call you then?”

“Robb.”

“That’s a little demanding don’t you think?” He joked with a wink. They continued in silence and when almost with the rest of the group, set out around plates of food on folding tables on the grass, he stopped and turned. His hair shone in the sun. As black as the wings of a raven, a glimmer of iridescence. “Our little secret?”

He nodded. There was no need, but the idea that they might share something between them was too tempting to resist.


	3. Renly and Loras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The archery competition continues and the Tyrells scheme.

****

**Renly**

The clouds rolled lazily overhead shielding them from the harsh midday sun of summer and for this Renly was grateful, despite Loras’ misgivings. It was almost possible some days to imagine that, like a rose, he fed off the sun’s light, and like the sun glinting from his golden roses, his hair shone. 

Low tables around which they had gathered held pies and sweets of all kinds. Anything it might be possible, or polite rather, to eat with hands alone that he could possibly imagine. Ale in hand, he watched Loras fondly.

Radiant as ever, Loras told a tale animatedly to the rest of the group, holding the attention of all but two of their companions. The prince and Greyjoy sat to their side, full of shy glances and coy smiles as they spoke in hushed voices, but laughed with vigour, unable to help themselves. He didn’t want the bittersweet mood it left him with. 

When he looked back, Loras was tilting his head in curiosity, silently asking him what had left him with this melancholy expression, his curls moving slightly with move the movement and the light breeze. Sighing, Renly shook his head, but the direction of his gaze gave it away.

Loras gave a small understanding nod, tilting his chin upwards slightly.

“It will be fine,” he attempted to reassure him, a brief touch of his hand against his arm.

He and Loras made things work, and he knew that. He knew of all the joys it came with, but he also knew the pain. The inability to have a truly public relationship was stifling, it weighed on him every day, and every night. In one moment, he would forget in the thrill of it all, the overwhelming nature of love, but inevitably the time would come when these feelings warped in realisation of their predicament. Despite the love and affection, their involvement would always have their limits. He supposed he should count himself lucky in some manners. Should either have been a woman the potentional would be there for their families to deny a love match. At least in this sense it was possible for them to spend time together in public life, and to some extent in private, with limited uproar. The same relationship between a man and woman would be near impossible, and would have the added worry over potential bastards

These two, however, should it turn into something, Renly worried for them more so. Robb Stark would never not be under constant scrutiny, and Theon? The Greyjoys were not known for their tolerance. They were not Tyrells.

The prince’s squire hovered nervously behind him, attempting to catch a good moment to interrupt the pair of them. When he eventually managed it, Robb reluctantly stood and said his goodbyes, running a hand through his hair. The poor thing was clearly anxious, even about this. What to do, what to say, the prospect of Greyjoy watching him, or not, as he walked away.

Sure enough, once Theon had moved across the grass to sit beside them, he watched with a knee pulled up under him, his elbow perched on top as his finger ran lightly over his lip. He was in a world of his own. The Stark boy did, of course, turn back to look and was rewarded with one of the cockiest smirks and winks Renly had ever seen. Robb’s mouth gaped ever so slightly before he returned a bashful smile and turned quickly away, but he couldn’t help but turn back once more, leaving them both laughing lightly.

Smiling as he laid back onto the lush grass, Theon watched the skies moving above him, a contemplative mood about him, toying a little in the patch of purple clovers at his fingers. 

“He’s smitten,” laughed Loras, “just look at him.”

Theon side eyed him, shielding his face with his hand as the sun broke through the clouds, “you’re mistaken.”

Renly exchanged glances with a dubious looking Loras. 

“Greyjoy, you can be honest with us,” he told him slowly, being cautious.

“What?” Theon’s eyebrows knitted, whether it be from the confusion or the sun, and turned to look at them. “Oh, no, it’s not that… not really.”

“May we know what ‘it’ is?” Renly asked, trying to hold back a full smile as the corner of his lip quirked.

Theon groaned as he searched for an explanation, “he’s… young.”

“He’s not that young!” Loras protested, only a year older than Robb himself.

Renly cleared his throat to grab his attention.

“It’s not that. It’s not really about his age in particular,” he told him knowingly, picking at a piece of bread.

Theon threw up his hands as though waiting for a barrage on the age gap being insignificant from the pair of them. 

“That’s not it either. He’s…” he said quickly and flapped his hands a little at the wrist as he tried to find the right word.

“Naïve?” Renly tried, humoured by it. “Green?”

Loras snorted, eyeing Theon curiously, “ is that it? You’re worried about his experience?”

“I’m just not inclined to be holding his hand while he decides how he feels about things… Seven hells, I’m not even that way inclined all in.”

Renly quirked a brow, “Theon…”

“He’s different,” his chest heaved as he took a deep breath and sighed.

“…like something serious?”

Theon scoffed as though he was being absurd.

Renly’s mouth opened to further press on this spot when Loras stopped him, a hand on his arm. His curls bounced as he shook his head.

“It’s not that,” Loras said, somewhat pensively, looking out into the trees around them.

Theon looked up and over to Loras and chewed his lip lightly. Their eyes met, leaving Renly to feel somewhat excluded. 

“We should get going.” Theon jumped up to his feet and went about tidying himself up, dusting off, as though this was as much of a prep for the afternoons proceedings as anything else. 

The nonchalance he had about his skill with a bow was extraordinary, and Renly expected he really was talented, and that the morning was not just a fluke. But for a youth who did not appear to be at all disciplined or focused to win? That seemed rather unlikely with this crowd of nobles. He was no longer the trained lord surrounded those of a lesser status and with less experience than him.

-

Thunk. The first arrow of Greyjoy’s hit the centre of the straw target.

He glanced across the stands before reaching for another bolt from the quiver at his waist, but seemed to zone out the raucous noise. His lips pursed as he took another shot.

There was something different to him than that morning. A certain air of seriousness in his movements and determination. His style becoming wooden almost.

Sucking in his lips, Theon sighed as he paced a quick circle, head down, taking a moment to clear his head. He cleared his throat, took the third and final bolt into hand, and was just adjusting his stance when he paused as something caught his eye.

The prince appeared somewhat out of breath as he practically dashed up onto the dais. Greeting his siblings quickly, he settled into the throne and held up a hand by way of an apology for his previous absence and the interruption.

Greyjoy lowered his arm to bow to his prince respectfully.

It was going all too easily, he should feel relieved for Loras that, so far, his scheme had gone relatively unhitched, but it uneased Renly. Perhaps it was guilt he was feeling, but then why should he feel this on his conscience if this was so clearly foreseeable? The prince had been so quickly drawn in that he would have surely fallen at some point, if not now, then in the future, and why should he not wish for the Tyrells to benefit over another house? Even his own in some respects. His brothers did not take him seriously enough for him to gain all that much should his niece reign, and should their plan succeed he was promised a spot on the small council, largely for his secrecy. 

This time there was that familiar flourish to his shot. Renly needn’t look to the target, the triumphant look on Greyjoy’s face was all he needed. Theon grinned and looked to Loras, away from the dais. He most definitely did know what he was doing.

Renly himself took his turn unhitched, and though he did not match Theon it was leagues above many of the others. As was Stark’s. Though the boy lacked finesse, he made some of it up with willpower and grit. It resembled well practiced dances by those who have no feel for rhythm. It was, of course, natural for him to want to perform for the crowds, but Renly sensed that more than a little of the determination came from his sheer resolve not to embarrass himself in front of a particular new acquaintance. 

Robb was rewarded with a clap on the back from the Iron Born, it was natural enough to be judged as comradely, but his cheeks pinkened at his touch all the same. 

A final archer approached, he’d seen him that morning and been impressed, but had forgotten to get to the bottom of who he was. On the short side, a little fellow. He didn’t recognise the sigil, but his mannerisms, the desire to hide behind the hood, and Princess Sansa’s speed and courtesy of how she bestowed a favour left him to believe this must be a northerner. 

The prince was likewise gallant as he greeted him onto the field, and in his congratulations post turn against the target.

Up on the dais, Sansa smiled and clapped with as much enthusiasm as she had both Loras and her brother. Spinning to chatter happily with her lady’s maid, a pretty girl with dark hair. He forgot her name.

“Shall I see you this eve?” Robb asked, addressing the small group of them even if Renly suspected it was aimed especially at just one.

Loras spoke for them, “you can expect all of us I’m sure, your highness.”

“Until later, sire.” Theon bowed his head as a send-off, avoiding the eyes around him, Renly’s own glower included.

“You’re pushing it too far,” he hissed once Stark was out of earshot, and they watched as he linked arms with Rhaenys.

Her free hand settled against the arms, pulling her closer in, and they both nodded and smiled to others as they passed by well-wishers.

 

**Loras**

Loras sighed, sitting back against the end of the wooden tub in Renly’s chambers, somewhat exasperated by the whole conversation.

“Do you feel the same way?” Renly asked as he pulled his undershirt up and over his head.

“No… not especially, I mean not between ourselves, but there’s a certain… I’m not oblivious to the talk of others in those regards… and the Iron Islanders are known for their posturing. It’s different to fucking some commoner.”

Renly nodded understandingly, and kneeled up behind him on the smooth floorboards, hand’s sliding against his skin, slippery from the suds. He soaped up his hands and massaged gently it into his scalp. Loras melted under the touch and murmured appreciatively, leaning further back, a silent beg for him not to stop. The smell from the rose oil filled his nostrils and soothed him with its familiarity. Renly rinsed the hair carefully with a jug of clean water, running his hands through his hair, before nudging him up to sit behind him, pulling Loras to lie up against him, and leisurely rubbing a sponge across his body.

“I don’t think it goes unnoticed that I smell like a Highgardener more and more often these days,” Renly laughed.

“No, after all it is a vast improvement.”

“Oi!” Renly splashed him a little with the bath water, but promptly drew Loras into him afterwards. 

The lingering scent on both him and Renly always left him longing for touches, and not only for its claimed natural properties, but the memories of these moments.

Loras took one of Renly’s hands from the edge of the bath and stroked it absentmindedly, tracing along the lines and veins with his fingertips. 

“Let’s go hunting some time soon, we should get away for awhile.”

Renly kissed the crown of his head softly.

“That might not be possible, dependent how things go. As much as I long to.”

Pursing his lips, Loras said nothing. He knew that theoretically his family stood to gain, but he found himself longing for things to stay as they were. Margaery, his grandmother, and all the rest of them to leave King’s Landing and return back in Highgarden. To spend free moments here in Renly’s arms. 

To succeed would be to change.

-

“He is reluctant,” complained Margaery to their grandmother as they sat in the window seat of Lady Olenna’s drawing room against plush pillows.

She sat with embroidery hoop, carefully stitching yet another rose, her hair in an elaborate fashion and dressed in one of her more extravagant dresses, awash in green silks.

Olenna sipped on her ginger tea and tittered softly, her hands no longer deft enough for such pursuits even if she had the desire. 

“He’s just reluctant, dear.”

“Perhaps he might appreciate some originality,” Loras suggested as he looked over his sister’s shoulder, a little unimpressed with her efforts.

“And what might you have me adorn it with, brother? A wolf? A dragon?”

Loras felt along the sculpted stone surrounding the window, admiring the intricacy of the repeating pattern.

“I suppose a dragon, considering the circumstances. Remind him of what could be, show him how you think of him…” He approached Olenna, appealing to her despite his words addressing Margaery, “And that it isn’t some meaningless token you could given to any man that might approach you.”

Their grandmother stroked his arm approvingly with her bony hand as she chuckled, “one would have thought that plan might have come from Margaery here.” The rings on her fingers were now too loose for her, and moved as she patted him.

A backhanded compliment. One neither of them appreciated.

Margaery clenched her jaw ever so slightly before she spoke, but Loras caught it all the same. 

“It’s not as though the idea escaped me,” she told them calmly, and then turned back to her work, tilting her head as she was prone to do when she felt like she was winning an argument. When she felt she was being much wiser than the rest of the room, something Loras felt would be best avoided under her current audience, it was ordinarily performed for her brothers and ladies, “but I have an aversion to committing treason.”

“No one's going to accuse you of treason,” he said as he wandered away from the large window and to the table laden with a variety of fruits despite their impending required presence in the great hall.

“Dear, a woman can always claim ignorance. Perhaps a black dragon?” Olenna suggested. Anyone of their house other than Margaery would not be afforded such patience in privacy.

“I shall make an addition of a J, how about that? Brother?”

Both turned to him, as someone who received such things himself, to judge the idea.

“Better,” he conceded. “At least it isn’t completely impersonal even if it’s lacking in other matters. But a new one, red rose. And make another without it, a little sub par.”

Margaery raised a brow and his grandmother turned slightly in the seat to get a good look at him pouring wine from a jug at the table.

“For his cousin,” he sighed, his chest tightening, guilt overcoming him, “make sure he sees it.”

The pair of them exchanged impressed looks. They thought he could not match them. They always had.

“How are things with the prince?” Margaery asked sweetly, her hair brilliant in the sunset, as though she weren’t discussing tearing a man away from what he considered his birthright. 

“I still believe Aegon would be the better choice,” murmured Loras, ignoring the question stubbornly.

“The Starks would rather put Aegon to the sword than see him marry well. Unless of course they wed him to Sansa.”

Margaery squinted a little at her work in the dying light as she spoke. “They will marry Rhaenys to Robb, there would be little point.”

“The reluctance implies otherwise,” his grandmother said simply.

Loras bit his tongue.

“I suppose they maybe hold out for that Baratheon girl, Myrcella. She’s a little young as of yet.”

He scoffed, but continued not to get involved.

“It would be better to pair Sansa with her elder brother,” pointed out Margaery, finally setting aside the hoop and pushing the needle through the fabric to keep it in place.

“Robert wants his daughter a queen, I’d wager. He could have had the throne himself,” Olenna sneered, “if he had not had an aversion to work. Too busy visiting whorehouses. And that Lannister woman, she’d stop at nothing to make it happen.”

“Then why not go for Robb ourselves, cut out the risk?” Margaery asked, becoming frustrated.

“We’ve been over this, your wiles will not win Robb Stark. He will not be gained in a love match. Which brings us back full circle. Loras?”

“It’s going as well as we could hope.”

His sister finally looked at him with some sympathy, but it only made him feel worse about it all. The more he knew those involve the more it felt like a betrayal. He was not strictly opposed to winning through underhand methods, he saw it as a victory in itself, to outsmart, to out trick. This, however, this made him feel sick to his stomach.


	4. Jeyne and Rhaenys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne has a run in with Jon, and Rhaenys has a heated discussion with her cousin.

**Jeyne**

The brush’s bristles travelled through Sansa’s silky hair smoothly, hitting not a single knot or tangle, and yet Jeyne continued. Sansa was a firm believer that hair should be brushed no less than 100 times on each occasion in order to keep it at its healthiest. Jeyne would have argued against this, but anecdotally her friend did have rather beautiful hair.

She watched Sansa in the reflection of the mirror as her eyes closed with the relaxing sensation. How wonderful it would be to simply have the courage to raise her confusion with Jon to her, and for him to have been someone else, someone who befit her station. Jeyne would have already told her how she felt should that have been the case, and they would have delighted in the gossip. 

As it happened Sansa was starting to become somewhat frustrated with Jeyne’s apparent lack of trust in her, particularly under the current circumstances. Current circumstances being her most recent infatuation.

“Perhaps father would be pleased…” Sansa mused, her lips pouting slightly as she considered the variety of jewels upon the dressing table, holding an earing to her ear.

“Perhaps,” responded Jeyne. At times like this she found it a little difficult to be completely honest, to let Sansa know what she felt to be the truth.

The truth was that Jeyne believed it to be quite unlikely that Eddard Stark would allow his eldest daughter to marry a crannogman. Sansa was destined to be the Lady of some magnificent keep, to be the wife of a man of high standing from one of the great houses of Westeros, or perhaps, as Jeyne often dreamed, for in the event she would surely go with her, she might make a marriage in some exotic far off place. A free city maybe. This fiery haired Princess did not belong in a swamp.

How it came to be that Sansa’s attentions turned from Aegon she didn’t know, but it was as though that period never happened. Jeyne suspected that Sansa had decided that would never be feasible and dismissed it. There was too much risk in regards to Aegon. Still, he was really quite smart, and not unhandsome either. Just not more so than his brother. In looks that was, and if she was completely honest Aegon’s intelligence could be a little intimidating at times.

“Jeyne?... Jeyne?”

She must have zoned out and was drawn back into the dimly lit room by a concerned looking Sansa.

“I think we have done with the brushing, but it might be best to light some candles. I was thinking maybe you might be willing to braid my hair? I will return the favour, of course. There are so many Lord’s retainers here, we should take advantage of the situation? Perhaps you might meet your future husband, Jeyne! We should be prepared.”

Jeyne considered the idea that the difference between finding a husband or not being in the braiding of hair to be a little silly, but then she liked to get swept up in Sansa’s fantastical notions.

Dutifully, she set about creating one of Sansa’s favourite styles, her fingers getting confused at times over what they were doing, but by the end she was triumphant, though her arms ached from having held them in strange positions. After helping Sansa into a blue dress, which did a beautiful job at bringing out the colour of her eyes - the Tullys really did know what they were doing with their house colours -, she sat in the carved wooden chair herself and allowed Sansa to play with her locks.

Once, she had confessed her feelings for another lordling to Sansa and, though she had not said so, Jeyne knew that Sansa found the idea that it might ever work to be ridiculous. He would never have looked twice at a girl of her status. But Jon did, when he thought no one was looking, when he let his guard drop. And Jon himself, well, he was considered a bastard by most.

This created further problems however. He regularly hinted that he would head north, to the wall, to join the Night’s Watch with his mother’s brother, Benjen. Jeyne suspected the only reason he delayed this was the dream that he might one day be appointed to the Kingsguard. Quietly, she felt the Kingslayer might have dashed this hope by reminding the realm that knights were merely human.

Sansa really had done a good job by the time she had done, and was threading through some of her own grey ribbons into Jeyne’s dark hair.

“My burgundy dress will suit you very well, Jeyne. Would you fetch it?”

Jeyne hesitated. She knew the dress Sansa was speaking of.

“I’m not sure…”

“Jeyne, it will be fine. You are my very best friend and I will tell anyone that hassles you that I insisted. Besides, with the amount going on at the moment it is unlikely anyone notable will notice what you are wearing.”

She knew Sansa meant well, that she didn’t know her feelings. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have thought twice about the term ‘notable’, but this evening it suggested Jon would never think of her.

Her hands ran over the clothes in Sansa’s wardrobe, as they did every time she opened it, which was almost everyday. They brushed soft fabrics and embroidery adorned with beading. The dress she was removing was not the fanciest amongst them, but nor was it the least. It was of a thin soft wool with dark grey trimmings. A small hint at Sansa’s mother and father’s houses both. But Jeyne could dream it was the muted colours of the Targaryen’s, or perhaps their red combined with the Stark grey. Or the small amount grey of her family’s coat of arms of course, but that seemed a little less exciting.

“Oh, you do look beautiful!” Sansa declared once she had dressed. Only she would call her such a thing, for only she didn’t see herself beside herself each and every day. Alongside Sansa, Jeyne was pretty at most, everyone said so. A plain Jeyne if you will.

“Thank you,” Jeyne said brightly, stood before a mirror and admiring the dress.

-

Jeyne waited for Sansa outside of the Queen’s chambers. She had been there quite some time, and had begun to fidget when a familiar nudge was felt at her side. A cold damp nose against her hand.

Ghost could be so quiet that she could completely miss his presence. She thought him well named.

Kneeling on the floor, she fussed over the direwolf. Animals were not ones to focus on things like the standing of houses and status. To them they were all human and Ghost and the wolves treated her as they did any member of their owner’s family. 

“You will ruin my cousin’s dress,” Jon told her scornfully, he had not been long behind.

“It is a little hair, no more.”

“It is not your dress to decide what is appropriate or not.”

“Sansa has allowed me and trusts my judgement.”

“Sansa should know better than to let you wear the clothes of a Lady,” he said harshly.

Ghost dropped to lie his upper body against Jeyne’s knees, rubbing his head against her.

“Ghost,” Jon called to the wolf without success.

Jeyne stroked the underneath of Ghost’s chin wistfully, purposefully ignoring Jon’s attempt.

“Look, I just don’t want you to suffer for it.”

She nodded, looking up to meet his dark eyes.

“You haven’t exchanged clothes for some time now… not since you covered that dress in grass stains.”

Jeyne laughed as her face flushed from remembering the embarrassment of the telling-off she had received, the vision of white cotton streaked with green, “you remember?”

“Of course I remember, it was the day I truly realised we could not all play together as equals, as children do, forever.”

She felt a lump in her throat and looked down to fix her eyes upon Ghost, feigning interest in the soft fur behind his ears.

“Sansa believes that I might attract the eyes of another if well dressed,” she said quietly.

Jon sighed heavily and struggled for words, “you don’t need a fancy dress for that.”

They met each other's gaze as she nipped her bottom lip, searching for something to say. Jon interrupted her before she got the chance.

“I should go,” he snapped his fingers at Ghost as he passed and the direwolf did this time go to him.

While no one was there to see her, Jeyne licked her hand to better remove the white hairs and wondered how Jon, with his penchant for dark clothing, managed.

-

**Rhaenys**

Rhaenys waited as Arianne finished catching up on her correspondence, the final letter being addressed to her father, Prince Doran. Behind her, Asha Greyjoy finished lacing up her tall salt stained boots. Arianne never had been particularly discreet about her trysts.

“You may speak freely,” Arianne told her while signing her name at the bottom of the parchment. Her bracelets jangled with the movement.

“I would rather not,” said Rhaenys stubbornly, her eyes on Greyjoy.

Arianne smirked. Looking up from her work, she set the quill aside.

“Then let me begin. If you do not act soon I will be forced to do what is necessary. We shall have a Martell in power. Now, out of the good of my heart I have a allowed you the courtesy of the opportunity to make this happen for yourself, as one woman to another. Should you have made no progress by the end of the tournament I will take action.”

Asha looked up to glance at Rhaenys, but when they met each other eyes for a split second they both tore away.

“Bar wedding Viserys, who is now third in the Targaryen line of succession,” Rhaenys laced her words with disgust, “what you are suggesting would be incest.”

“That’s a little extreme when considering cousins. Besides, I neither said these were plans for myself, nor ruled out Stark… or the bastard for that matter,” Arianne pointed out, folding the letter.

Rhaenys scoffed, ignoring even the suggestion of Arianne going after Robb, “Aegon would never. Who even-”

Arianne indicated back towards Asha.

Asha flung up her hands to Rhaenys in defence of a potential verbal attack, not wishing for any of the blame. “This is the first I’m hearing about it,” she claimed.

“It was purely an example,” Arianne rolled her eyes. “Daenerys would likely be a better choice, but it’s not one that couldn’t work though.”

“Daenerys is his aunt!”

“You are Targaryens after all.”

“You want to maroon me in King’s Landing to go play Princess in Dorne?” Interrupted Asha, frowning at the suggestion.

Arianne’s lips turned up into a grin. “Is that a problem?”

She stood to her feet angrily, annoyed with their faux lovers tiff. “None of this matters, I have everything under control, I assure you. I have been working towards this since I first knew the word queen, since I understood what was taken from me. I am a Dornish woman and I shall not allow you to pass me over.”

“You’ve never even set foot in Dorne,” Arianne said, her husky voice laden with indignance.

Rhaenys almost screamed in anger, “I am my mother’s daughter!” She gripped the table edge as she calmed. “Robb Stark will make a fine king, and I will stop at nothing to make that happen. I might have a let you push me aside for the good of the family, but I will never forgive you if you ruin his chance to reign. He is loved, the smallfolk would never accept it.”

“Are you in love with him, my lady?” Lady Greyjoy asked.

“No,” she snapped, frustrated by the question that was so familiar to her, “but let there be no doubt that I do love him.”

It was as true a statement as could ever be said. She couldn’t imagine a life without Robb Stark beside her. Robb who had always been there. Robb who was fiercely protective of his family, and treated her as one of his own. To her he would always be more important than the abstract notion of houses and this sense of family in name only. A brother by heart if not by blood, despite how she was looked down upon by other Starks. Of course, she did feel loyalty towards her mother's family, and she considered herself to be of their culture in the most part, but she had never truly been a Targaryen, not since her rejection by the grandfather on looks alone. Or smell as gossip would have it.

Sitting back in her chair, Arianne wore a satisfied expression. Covered in jewels and silks, she was imposing despite her small stature. Over the years she had sent Rhaenys lady’s maids trained in Dornish styles, but she quite clearly kept the most skillful to herself.

Asha cleared her throat, “I shall be on my way.”

As Rhaenys watched the Ironborn woman walk to the door she contemplated calling after her, to assure her that if her brother had any concerns that she should reassure him, but at this stage she preferred to keep Arianne in the dark a little longer. Perhaps she could catch a quiet word later that evening.

“Is there anything else, dear cousin?” Arianne asked as she heated orange wax over a candle. The wax spilled onto the paper and as her cousin pushed in the seal stamp part of Rhaenys wished she too could adorn her letters with the sun and spear.

Rhaenys shook her head, feeling the movement of the jewel against her forehead. This was the correct answer. It wasn’t a true invitation to speak, Arianne had requested her to come here and this was her cue to leave.

-

Aegon smiled warmly as she sat beside him on the long bench. He had clearly been slipping pieces of the roast lamb on the table to Ghost underneath for the direwolf pawed at her knee expectantly.

“You shall ruin my dress, you silly dog,” she playfully scolded and snuck him some food. The heat of one of the many fireplaces was at her back. Like any true Targaryen, Aegon was fond of the heat. “Where is Jon?”

“He got cornered,” he nodded towards where Jon stood, looking forlorn at the attentions of the Tyrell girl.

Rhaenys sniggered, tearing the crusts from a chunk of bread. She passed the inner portion to Aegon wordlessly as was their custom. It was always entertaining to watch Jon fend off would-be suitors even if she did feel empathy for him and them alike.

“I trust you have been meeting with Arianne?” He judged her mood correctly.

“Yes, and I recommend you lie low for a while unless you wish for an Iron Islander as a bride.”

“I hear the Greyjoys have a certain spirit and… boldness,” he joked.

She almost spat out the mouth of Arbor Red. It wouldn’t have been too much of a loss, if she wanted sweetness she’d opt for a strongwine, not this swill. She did like Arianne very much on a personal level, she knew she was just trying to jeer her on, but she could become tiresome in her ambition when acting for their house.

“It seems the Greyjoys are gaining quite some popularity.” 

Rhaenys reached for a plate of honeyed root vegetables as she responded to Aegon’s quizzical look by nodding towards Robb in a trance like state up at the high table. 

“He should be more cautious.”

“He’s besotted. He is rather dashing though isn’t he?” She asked, referring to Theon Greyjoy who was now definitely headed towards them

“I suppose if you like that kind of thing.”

She laughed, “charm and charisma?”

“My lady, I thought you might accept the offer of a dance as I have so clearly gotten your attention.” Greyjoy offered his hand out for her to take.

“It would be my pleasure, Lord Greyjoy.”

He smiled at Aegon, his mouth impossibly wide. “I promise I will not keep her long.”

As the music started once more, filling the great hall, it was clear this man was unfamiliar with the capitals dance, but what he lacked in training he made up for with a feel for the beat and a natural grace. She lead him easily through the steps and by the time came in the song for the switching between partners he seemed to have a sense for what he was doing and delivered her straight into Robb’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Questioned Robb, a little too accusatory for her liking.

“Nothing, this is all on him, he’s baiting you,” she laughed.

“Well, say nothing.”

She pursed her lips to portray her silence.

Passed back to Theon, she demonstrated a particularly difficult portion of the dance to him.

“Why is it that he has yet to snap you up?”

Lowering her eyes, she assumed a bashful expression despite lacking the flush of her cheeks.

“I try not to dwell on it, my lord. I would suggest though that the Starks do not wish to see their son with a Targaryen.” 

“I could imagine he might have stolen you off to the sept by now, spurred on by youthful lust.”

A little white lie about the situation, it was true after all. “The Stark’s are nothing if not honourable.”

“Perhaps then the inverse, it’s not unheard of; a Targaryen sneaking away a Stark,” he told her, placing her hand into that of Robb’s and giving her little opportunity to respond, his own lingering over their fingers.

Robb’s thumb stroked her hand discreetly as Greyjoy walked away and he asked, “what’s this face for?”

“Nothing, I was just thrown by his boldness.”

He nodded as if he understood very well what she meant by this. 

Having slipped away from the dancers, Theon waited by one of the doors expectantly.

“Go,” Rhaenys insisted and watched as they snuck out and into the night. This worked in her favour after all, as long as she could persuade Robb she would not regret her decision. She found it a blessing that she wasn’t prone to romantic attachments but it was harder to convince him that this wasn’t strictly a temporary feeling. That it wasn’t simply that she had yet to find ‘the one’.


	5. Theon and Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Jeyne put one foot forward as Robb steps back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry this has taken some time to get out. I've been a bit down trodden recently, but this wonderful [fanart](https://turtleduckie.tumblr.com/post/182464896355/the-iron-throne-belongs-to-our-sister) (its not quite the same type of au, but I love it) and your lovely comments spurred me on.

**Theon**

The night air was filled with the heady scent of of honeysuckle. It did nothing to calm his senses, but rather exhilarated him with its sweet perfume. He no longer felt lost in the sea of people. He was no longer amongst the chaos. His mind focused on the rush and his heart raced as he and Robb stole into the darkness. Had he less sense he might have acted upon the longing to simply pull the young prince around the corner and into his embrace.

“How long until they start looking for you?” He asked with a smirk, setting his pace to walk alongside Robb, the gravel crunching underfoot.

Robb sighed deeply, more so than Theon had expected, and licked his lip nervously until it glistened tantalisingly as he glanced back the way they’d come. “Someone is always looking for me,” his cheeks became pink with the embarrassment of admitting his own importance, “but the benefit of that is it is easier for people to suppose that I am… engaging in other credible activities, meeting with others.”

Theon snorted a little at that and allowed his hand to graze Robb’s, sending sparks throughout him, asking teasingly, “and you are implying this isn’t one, your highness?”

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted, flushing further, the tips of his ears turning red and blending in further to his auburn hair. Averting his eyes, he concentrated on the flowering rose beds they walked past, lit only by the clear night sky.

Silently, he waited for them to clear the immediate area beside the keep and walk towards the edge of the Godswoods where they would find shelter under the canopies of alder and elm. The place was eerie, but, being as the Stark’s kept the Old Gods, Robb walked confidently into it, his shoulder brushing up against Theon’s at every opportunity.

“You shouldn’t antagonise her,” said Robb suddenly in a low voice, eyes fixated ahead, and Theon’s immediate reaction was to ask who before the realisation struck. Rhaenys.

Keeping his face straight, he asked, “what did she say?” 

“Well… that you were ‘bold’, but it was mostly the impression I got,” Robb admitted.

Theon chuckled. No one could deny he wasn’t sometimes a little too bold, and in the wrong way if his father was to be believed, but he pushed that thought down within him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ‘antagonise’ her, but I was somewhat forward, granted.” The corners of his mouth twitched into a smirk and he eyed Robb carefully, searching his face, looking into those bright blue eyes. “You really care about her don’t you?”

The prince scowled, his expression harsher than anything he had yet to see. “If we were not close, how do you expect this would have played out?” Robb asked crossly.

“What is ‘this’ princeling?” 

He watched as, lit by the moonlight filtering through the leaves, Robb fought with his inner feelings. Clearly now aggravated, Robb took a deep breath, turning back and forwards, threatening to leave the situation behind him, and suddenly Theon couldn’t bring it upon himself to smile any longer as he waited for the verdict. He feared he’d pushed him too far.

Robb threaded his fingers through his curls, clasping at the back of his head in despair and stretching out his body.

“You aren’t half difficult,” he said eventually, perhaps with reason to. “I just mean to say that another may have asked more questions when we both left.”

It seemed to Theon that it was impossible to say if she had been curious or not, but for a moment or two he said nothing and looked ahead, just able to make of Maegor’s Holdfast looming above the trees. They would always be overlooked in some capacity, such was the life of royalty.

“She knows, doesn’t she?” Theon asked suddenly as it dawned on him, incredulous. The idea that he might trust a Targaryen to quite such an extent bemused him. 

“What do you mean?”

Theon shook his head lightly in disbelief, grinning at him. On impulse, he reached out and took Robb by the hand to pull him towards him. Chest to chest, he lead him by the chin to his lips, fingers then trailing back to the nape of his neck, eliciting a small whine. At first his jaw loosened to welcome him and the kiss was returned. A rush ran through him from head to toe and then suddenly it was gone. Robb stepped backwards, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground, and away from him, hands against his chest, though not quite pushing. He’d made quite the mistake.

“I can’t.”

“Wait!” Theon shouted after him as he began to walk away, but did nothing to stop him. Dumfounded, he stood and watched instead.

Left in the woods alone, he closed his eyes and regretted every decision since he’d arrived at King’s Landing. How could he have let Loras lead him to believe this was even possible, never mind that it was a safe venture.

-

Stood beside Loras and Renly during the final round in the archery, Theon did everything to avoid looking at Robb. It was an incredibly difficult feat considering one must be seen to show adequate respect to the crown prince. He kept his eyes lowered and words short when spoken to. With the rest of them he likewise found himself keeping conversation to a minimum.

With Robb rattled, he threw his chances immediately, hands visibly quivering with the nerves. He was celebrated by the crowds all the same. Renly performed well, but his only real competitor was the crannogman, and despite his sour mood and lack of focus he won, barely relishing moment the shot hit the dead centre of the target. Everything felt dull. He was numb to it all. Simply going through the motions. The sounds of the crowds and claps on the backs from peers attempting to save face did nothing to raise his spirits while normally he would have thrived.

Not only had he allowed himself to fall for a man, but he’d been rejected by him too. He felt sickened by it. His stomach clenched when he thought about the possibility that his father might have discovered his transgressions. He’d been so caught up in the chase that he hadn’t even be subtle. Subtle was not Theon Greyjoy’s mode of seduction.

A thought that hadn’t occurred to him was that winning meant receiving a prize, approaching the dias and being handed his a reward by Robb. His stomach flipped at the idea, and when the time came, he anxiously smoothed out his clothing and hair, and kept his head held high and proud. He would look Robb in the eye now. He would not be beaten by this. He would not run no matter how his heart willed him to leave for Pyke. That would provoke too many questions for one thing. But when he approached it was apparent that one significant Stark was missing. Instead of Robb stood the King himself, flagged by his eldest daughter to welcome him.

Full of frustration, as soon as the prize giving was over and he could leave politely, he said his sharp goodbyes to the rest of them, avoiding Loras’ brewing curiosity. On his walk back to the keep he passed Jojen Reed, his hood remaining up, as he continued to be congratulated on his second place, and when he was called over be charged straight on, wanting nothing more to do with it.

His anger brewed. Thoughts and scenarios flooded his mind. Filled to the brim with adrenaline he had the desire to seek out Robb, storm the royal apartments even, and confront him. And then he saw it, the flash of red hair through the foliage of a hedge to one of the smaller gardens and instinct came over him, but when he parted the branches to look it wasn’t Robb, but his sister with the Reed boy, only it couldn’t be. He’d just passed him by.

As if it knew his need to be calmed; the cold wet nose of a dog pressed up against his hand as he watched on, but when he turned to look he found himself mistaken. One of the direwolves stood beside him, looking at him expectantly. Already large, it was still a puppy, or cub as the case may be. He scratched the beast behind the ear, finding comfort in it despite the apprehension. It surprised him greatly that the direwolves were given such freedom to roam.

 

**Jon**

Robb pushed the food he’d gotten for lunch around on his plate looking dejected. Jon had spent the past half an hour trying to coax out of him what was wrong but without any look. It was rare to find him in such a bad mood, and Aegon looked on with concern. Eventually he stood and made his excuses to leave, even his walk was slower than usual and his smiles were completely transparent to anyone who truly knew him.

“Maybe they’ve been arguing?” Egg tried. He had to mean Rhaenys.

Jon frowned, biting into an apple as he contemplated it. “They were talking this morning. It was hushed, but they didn’t seem at odds with each other… I suppose though he might have confided in her at least.” The thought made him jealous and that in itself frustrated him. He didn’t want to play favourites. The closeness between them should please him. If anything it might mean there was less chance of losing her no a foreign place and if nothing else they at least enjoyed each other’s company. Once he’d joined the Night’s Watch opportunities to travel would be limited.

He looked across the table to find Aegon looking on in amusement as Margaery Tyrell approached them. Egg forked his hand through his silver hair and turned to look down at his food with purpose. Playfully, he kicked him below the table.

“Jon,” she began with a shy smile he didn’t believe for a moment. This was how most addressed him, unless they called him Lord Snow and that was only to mock him. They all tipped around his status. He suspected it was partly down to confusion as occasionally someone would slip up and address his half siblings as prince and princess. “I wanted to wish you good luck in the melee.”

He fought the instinct to turn cold with her, playing the good knight he wished to be. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

She took this as an invitation to sit beside him on the bench. Sat faced away from the table and Aegon and angled towards him, the bronze of her jewelry glinted in the coloured light spilling in through the stained glass of the great hall. Bashfully, she drew out a piece of fabric from her sleeve. It was still warm from the heat of her body when she pressed it with earnest into his hand. “It would honour me greatly if you would be sweet enough to accept this.”

He ignored Aegon’s smirking and looked down at the favour, speechless and with a great desire to hide it away from view. Struck immediately by the colours of his father’s house, he took a deep breath and muttered out the only thing he could. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Margaery’s head tilted to the side as she tried to read his mood. “It’s just a small token. I hope it serves as a reminder of my sentiments.” She touched the hand holding her gift to him briefly and stood to leave the pair of them. 

After she’d left, Aegon suddenly reached over the table and snatched the favour from his hand. Caught off guard by the swift movement, he lost it easily to him. As he watched Aegon peer over it, clearly as evaluating the message there as he had himself, he caught sights of another in the corner of his eye. Jeyne. His chest tightened as he resisted the urge to immediately reassure her that it wasn’t what it looked like. In some ways maybe it was best for her to think the worst.

Unaware of the situation in which Jon found himself in, Egg looked over his shoulder to follow Jon’s line of sight and smiled warmly at her, encouraging her to come and sit beside him. With awkward movements, she conceded and followed suit, sitting and pouring out her self some of the watered down wine at the table.

Anxiously, Jeyne took a mouthful and pursed her lips, fixating on the wall behind Jon. Back in her own plain clothes she held herself in her usual relaxed way. He liked seeing her in moments like this, not trying to be someone else. It wasn’t worth the risk to wear the finery of his cousin. Without them her soft beauty shone through. Eventually, she looked curiously into the hands of Aegon, brows furrowing at the sight. It was telling that someone outside of their house seemed to have picked up on the subtext. Just enough to make a point, not quite enough to be an overt enough statement to get called out on it.

He’d almost been foolish enough to kiss her the evening before, appalled at himself for how callous he had been to her. But that would have been to neglect the desire to protect her from the inevitable. There had been a time when she had held her own amongst them, and when she would tease him with ease, now it only happened when their resolve slipped.

“That’s some beautiful work,” she said objectively, forever cordial, then suddenly she looked at him with a sad smile. “It must have taken some time.”

“Have you been hard at work?” Egg asked her. Jon thanked him silently for diverting the conversation if only a little.

“Not really,” she smiled prettily, the warmth of it filling her face, and gave his brother a peak at the small stash she’d got going of simply adorned ribbons. “just a little here and there when I have nothing to be getting on with. It doesn’t hurt to have some spares around. Sansa doesn’t like to be caught without.

“Not giving them out to any potential suitors of you own?” Aegon wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

Jeyne laughed and turned to self deprecation, “oh, no, it’s not me they want them from.”

Jon watched on as he held out his wrist for her to tie one round, smirking. He snorted, “you aren’t even competing.”

“I need luck in coping with the masses, there’s only so many people I can bear talking to in a day. It’s impossible to find a quiet space around here at times.” He rolled his eyes. “I think you’re just jealous. Jeyne,” he nodded his head towards Jon, wanting him to have the same treatment.

“I’m going to run out!” Jeyne jested, having been drawn in, and motioned for Jon’s hand.

“You should put it in his hair.”

Jon glowered at him, focusing on the taunting rather than the feel of her fingers against his skin. Her foot nudged at his below the table making it increasingly difficult.

“Thank you.”

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” he admitted. He found a desire to perform well and to prove his worth, but did not fear the activity itself, whether that be foolish or not. Though he knew there were many roles necessary for the Night’s Watch to function he had his hearts set on becoming a ranger. And what better than to leave the capital with some level of glory, that’s what tales were made of.

“I’m sure you will do well. Some may have the experience of age, but there’s no shortage of those who think you talented. Although I am not really in a position to comment, I know very little to compare you, you seem very skillful to me.” She pushed back a loose lock of hair and her cheeks turned pink.

Fighting the glow of pride, he smiled at her and found his foot pressing against hers.


End file.
